Writing an editorial that's worthy of Nurses Week is tough. When I mentioned this to a colleague, she suggested I think about what nurses do from a patient's perspective.
As soon as she planted the idea, I flashed back to an incident I've barely discussed with anyone outside my family. Although it happened more than 20 years ago, writing or even thinking about it still brings tears to my eyes.
At the time, I was in the third month of my first pregnancy. My physician didn't think the fetus was growing normally. Although I should have understood the implications, I went about my routine denying any problems. When I started spotting one night, I didn't even wake my husband at first, because everything was "fine." But the bleeding became intense, and I lost the baby.
I became frantic, and my husband immediately took me to the ED. When I told the person at the reception window what was going on, a nurse gently seated me in a wheelchair and whisked me to an examining room.
Knowing I was as fragile as a cracked egg, the nurses who cared for me that night did everything to communicate their competence and compassion. Calmly reassuring me, they started an I.V. line and administered medications. Most important, though, they gave me the physical and spiritual comfort I craved. Feeling safe and supported, I was able to face what had happened and start grieving.
I don't remember what I said to them when I left, so I'm saying it now: Their care and compassion had a tremendous impact on me. What they probably considered routine care was the glue that held me together.
Over the years, other dedicated nurses have comforted my family and me in similar ways. During childbirth, various emergencies with my two sons, and my parents' chemotherapy sessions, the seemingly small things nurses do have eased our pain when we were hurting most.
Much emphasis today is placed on measurable things to validate a nurse's worth, such as documentation, interventions, and outcomes. Yet among a nurse's greatest assets are the intangibles the gentle touch, the kind word, the simple presence that a patient will never forget.
My Nurses Week message is this: Thanks for all you do, and especially for sharing your gifts.
Cheryl L. Mee
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